House of Ruin

Image Credit: Mike Norris via Pexels

Written by: Annaliese Crocker
Edited for FalWriting by: Eoin Murray

The old man sat with the other ruined men as they unravelled lengths of rope that would be used for caulking ships. Monotonous, tedious work, as brutal on the soul as it was on the hands, but the master of the workhouse didn’t care about such things, and the men worked by dim lamps well into every night.

The old man barely noticed the thick stench of unwashed bodies anymore, or the weeping, granite stone walls that surrounded him. He had long stopped caring about the winter sun as it tried to drop in through the small filthy windows and he had no stomach for the gruel the master's wife ladled up.  Instead, as the old man worried greasy lines of rope apart, he thought of his life as it was before the workhouse. He thought of all that he'd lost; the grand house, the rolling Devonshire fields, fine clothes and respectability. But what he mourned for above all else, was his ‘Erard grand piano and how his once soft, slender fingers deftly skipped over the ivory keys. Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata had been his favourite, and sometimes he could still hear himself playing within his flimsy memories that seemed to be fading as fast as he.

He gazed down at his fingers, turned warped brittle sticks that he could barely move without wincing, and a lone tear cleaned a trail down his face. Then suddenly, the old man flinched, clutching his chest, as the feather-footed master slapped the back of his head, and hollered in his ear to hurry up with his work. The old man toppled forward off his stool and slammed into the stone floor; his face twisted with the flash of pain. The other men jumped to his aid, turning him on his back, but it was a sight they’d seen in the workhouse too many times to hold any hope. When it was clear nothing could be done, the men removed their caps, and a bleak silence lay over the workhouse.

After the last rise and fall of the old man’s chest had come and gone, the men standing around him were astonished to see his face smooth, and for several moments the fingers on his hands moved ever so slightly, captured in some graceful rhythm, almost as if he were playing a piano.